


The Crow And The Butterfly

by CHEVY_IMPALA_1967



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:11:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3656736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CHEVY_IMPALA_1967/pseuds/CHEVY_IMPALA_1967
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re lookin’ at the patron saint of repressed denial, buddy,” Dean snorted. Damn, Cas almost perfected his impression of Sam’s bitchface. Talk about unamused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Crow And The Butterfly

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this is going, but I will probably be editing and adding more later.
> 
> I edited it a little bit!...yeah

The Winchester’s lives crisscrossed in the same patterns over prophecies and legends. Specific roles they existed to fulfill fizzled out one after one. They cut themselves out of the equation more times than they dared count. Hell, Dean couldn’t remember a time they actually did what they were supposed to do.

Dean bit into the palm of his hand. The little frays of the fabric knitted back together. He didn’t want to let Cain be right; he wasn’t gonna be a distorted loop of Cain’s failures. It was just another bullshit prophecy he had to tear up. He was an entity separate of the Mark. Cas hid the blade, Sam coached him on relapse-and-remission, and Charlie filled his down time with ‘fandom’ and hunter log updates. Dean felt calm. Usually.

Every once in a while, his skin would itch and crack, and before he knew it, his fingers came back bloody and he practically peeled the damn Mark off of his forearm. He soldiered up, poured alcohol over the ragged mess, and wrapped the sucker in gauze. Long sleeves became a necessity.

Sam watched him with wary eyes. A blind baby with literally no social experience could tell that he was afraid. Not of Dean or what could could do, but what he was becoming. He didn’t flinch or raise his arms when Dean was around. Sam just got the saddest, worried look in his eye that often ended with Dean storming out to the hall and punching the door frame as he went.

The steady tedium bored him. Worst of all, the tedium _caged_ him: fucking WWE, one on one showdown with the demon him and his soul. He couldn’t hop out of the ring; his soul just kept taking punch after punch and cowered in the corner for those brief interludes of time out.  More than once, the rounds ended with a smashed bottle or a hole in the wall. If Sam noticed, he didn’t say a word to Dean.

They still took cases, but Dean never went alone. Yeah, he understood why, but it still hurt. The last one was a standard salt-n-burn, but Cas insisted on going and learning more about how to become a hunter. Dean thought he’d given up on that dream, but friggin’ whatever. He took shotgun while Sam not-so-secretly secretly researched more about the Mark. After they ganked the SOB, Cas awkwardly stared at Dean while he slept.

Dean clutched the blade to his chest like a safety net. In this place, he ruled. His feet propped on the edge of a boney throne, throbbing beats of savagery pulsing through him. It felt good. Better than sex, drugs, and booze combined. He was high, so high on the power. It ached to just sit. He had better plans.

Dean’s arm came down on a familiar face, lashing a long line down its cheek. It hurt to look at its face, that thing that shined like a hundred-thousand watt light bulb. The angel crawled in front of him, teeth stark white against the blood on its lips. Dean knelt to its level, brushing back the slick dark hair, which had matted in hemoglobin-drenched clumps. His fingers tethered the entity in place.

“Look at you,” Dean growled, teeth bared. They grazed the tip of its ear. The little pained moans it made could’ve filled Dean’s top ten favorite sounds. The angel held strong, jaw straight and high. Its face distorted the room, like looking at a funhouse mirror and seeing yourself normal in the reflection. “Pretty little thing. I could break you in so many ways.”

Angel-face whimpered again, this time more resigned than pained. Dean barely touched him and the poor thing already was on its way to giving up. Carefully, the demon caressed its cheek with the teeth of the First Blade. The fun house effect intensified. The angel swayed, eyelids drooping.

“Hey, don’t go passing out on me yet. The fun’s just begun,” Dean purred. He cut down Cas’ jaw until the blade buried itself in his stomach…

 _Shit shit shit_. Dean jolted up from a frankly really disturbing dream about his bedmate. His skin hot and sticky, he threw himself out of bed and toward the bathroom. Washing water over his face, Dean prayed. Not to Cas, no, but to that useless piece of shit Dad that abandoned him. The one that left him like a teen dad with nothing to make Him love the winged bastards He created.  Dean prayed for God, anyone really, to wipe his memory of Cas’ face. He couldn’t get that damn image out of his head. He’d seen Cas’ real face, the holy-Heaven’s-wrath-and-glory face, a total of about five times. Maybe. He didn’t keep track. It didn’t matter anyway. But shit, probably the only thing he missed about being a demon was seeing That Face™.

Cas tapped at the door softly. If he wasn’t paying attention, Dean would’ve mistaken it for his own heartbeat.

“Dean?” Cas asked. Dean could feel him hovering behind the door. “Are you alright?”

“Gimme a minute,” he grumbled, the Mark glowing a sickly orange. He focused on the sound of the running water until the room cooled down.

Cas stood right outside like he thought with his stupid confused/concerned expression that he got whenever Dean did something mildly dangerous. If the angel wasn’t careful, his face would get stuck like that and all his angel buddies would laugh at him.

“I realize I’m in no place to lecture you on repression and denial,” Cas began. 

“You’re lookin’ at the patron saint of repressed denial, buddy,” Dean snorted. Damn, Cas almost perfected his impression of Sam’s bitchface. Talk about unamused.

“You haven’t told Sam or me what Cain said to you. You shut us out,” he continued. “That won’t make the Mark go away. I hid the First Blade as you asked, but that will only work for so long, and you know it.”

“What happened is between me and Cain, and that asshat won’t babble anytime soon. “

“What happened is tormenting you. I can only assume he threatened Sam’s life, and I assure you that he won’t get near him anytime soon.”

Dean busted out laughing. “Oh, man,” he chuckled, wiping a tear. “No. Plenty of monsters say they’re gonna kill Sam.”

“Then what did he say to you?”

“The truth!” Dean shouted. Fuck, did he have to pry? “I’m a monster, Cas. It’s just  matter of time before I snap and…”

“And what? Kill again? We can manage your urges. If you…become a demon again, we can cure you.”

“Not if I kill you.”

Cas stopped cold. In that moment he wasn’t Dean’s Cas, not that he ever was. He wasn’t that dorky little angel who didn’t understand pop culture and loved burgers. He was Castiel, badass angel of wrath and celestial intent. Swallowing, Dean took a step back. Fuck, Cas’ fingers twitched like they wanted to draw his blade.

“Is that what he said? You’ll kill us? Sam and I handled you as a demon. We can fend for ourselves,” Cas growled.

“It’s the Mark,” Dean rushed. “The Mark made Cain kill his brother, his wife, a fellow Knight…the people he loved.”

“The Mark isn’t a prophecy. Those events aren’t destined to repeat because you’ve taken it on.”

“ _You don’t know_ , Cas. This thing, it distorts you. It makes you hungry for blood and comes with a blade to take it.”

Cas sulked forward. “Have you forgotten Purgatory? I know the taste of power and its double-edged promises. I killed thousands. I killed my family. I nearly killed you and Sam. Don’t pretend that I’m clueless in your struggle.”

Dean shifted on his feet. Okay, maybe he did selectively forget when Cas betrayed them. He’d forgiven him a long time ago, so it was out of his head. Cas was right, though. All of them knew what that tasted like. Maybe not to the same degree, but they felt it. Dean just shut everyone out ‘cause he didn’t want to be a burden.  Nodding, he rubbed his face.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean sighed.

“We’ll be fine, Dean,” Cas insisted one last time. Dean rolled his eyes. There really wasn’t any fighting with him.

The pair hightailed it back to Lebanon in silence. Sam didn’t say a word to him about what Cain said, even though Dean could practically taste the concern dripping off him. Cas told him. He knew it.

Whatever. He wasn’t Cain, and he’d leave before he did anything to either of them. If Dean took out his bloodlust on other creatures they let him loose on, oh well. It was a way to cope, even if it meant giving in for five minutes.

But, God, did it feel so good to give in.

The blackouts started not long after they got back. He found himself sitting on his bed, blood and blade in hand, night after night. Sometimes, he came to in the middle of something inherently _wrong_ with the taste of copper on his lips and smooth leather in his palm. Nightmares of screaming and chains became pleasant dreams. He _looked forward_ to them.

“You woke up screaming again,” Sam said once. Dean ignored him. “It was worse this time. You said my name.”

“We’ve been through a lot of shit, okay? I can’t help it.”

Sam sighed and let it go.

The latest dream stuck in Dean’s head like a leech. When the blurry black sleepiness wore off, Dean leapt from his bed, gagging into the waste basket nearby. He stumbled to the hall and slammed the grimy knife into the sink.

Crowley’s blood stained his hands, no matter how much scrubbing he did in the wee hours of the night under a rusted faucet. It had been a bitch to get the demon alone. His witch-mom Rowena stayed at his side all hours. Hell, she hid outside his door when the poor bastard tried to sleep. Dean tried to sneak around her, he did. He just…snapped and cut her throat.

Oh, it felt fucking fantastic to bathe his fingers in her blood.

Crowley’s eyes, wide and frightened, bore into his soul. His mouth moved, and Dean was sure words were coming out, but he couldn’t hear them. He stepped forward.  A rumbling in his chest told him he growled at the demon. The _smell_ of Crowley’s fear filled him with joy.

Dean didn’t care that the blade in his hands wasn’t the blade he needed, but it didn’t matter. He wanted to taste the demon’s blood and hold his dead heart. Sweat dripped down his forehead steadily. The fever overcame him. As Dean gripped the angel blade in his fist tightly, Crowley leaped from his bed with his hands up.

“Squirrel,” he squeaked. Dean stalked closer, tracing lines over his skin. Cuts sang to him, calling for more. He smacked the demon’s face, splattering red over the wall. Crowley bit his tongue and suffered silently. Dean beat him again and again. Blood stuck to his cheeks and teeth. He purred another sort of growl, and then buried the knife in Crowley’s chest.

Cain. Dean was becoming Cain.

Dean looked at his hands, the blade trembling like a newborn’s first steps. It fell from his fingers, lathered in layers of vomit. He heaved over the ghost-images of their corpses.

He couldn’t even remember what Crowley said.

Dean shivered and fell to his knees, arms around himself. His clothes were soaked red and dripped sloppy _smack smack_ rhythms on the tiles. Arms wrapped around his shoulders and dragged him back down the hall.

 _Cas_ , he whimpered, thinking of Cain and his prophecy. Sam tucked him in and left the room.

“Hey,” his brother said the next morning, frowning. Cas hovered outside of the room.

“Hey,” Dean said.

“So Crowley…” Sam started. “Bela stopped in and told us. About Crowley.”

“ _Bela_?!”

“She’s a demon now. Thought she owed us a favor.”

“Right,” Dean sighed, rubbing his eyes. He pushed the covers off of his chest. “Am I on house arrest now?”

“Frankly, we were going to lock you in a demon’s trap. But we weren’t too sure that it was that great of a plan. You’d find a way out.”

Dean remained silent.

“Cas wanted to try pumping you full of his grace this time and see what would happen.”

Dean jumped back and slammed his head against the wall. It was gonna bruise, but he didn’t care. “What’s that gonna accomplish? Murder -suicide?”

Cas walked away. Or flew away. He couldn’t tell from the bed.

“We don’t have any other options. You’re just getting worse. You killed _Crowley_ , Dean, and his mom.”

A surge of pride filled him. Dean let his head bob. Yeah, he did. Dean Winchester ganked the King of Hell and walked out alive.

“ _Dude_ , don’t do that,” Sam gaped, approaching him. “Your eyes flashed black.”

They floated again, back to that WWE Boredom death match. Dean wouldn’t leave and Sam wouldn’t stop watching him. Sometimes, Charlie or Cas tapped out and babysat for a couple hours at a time. Charlie even took him to a couple LARPing events when she showed up, _and_ she managed to drag Cas to one of them. He dressed up like a knight with silver chainmail and blue velvet. Dean gulped and kept his eyes on the queen, who definitely teased the handmaiden a number of times before they packed it up and snuck back into the bunker.

Babysitting with Sam was just as fun. They watched Star Trek and answered calls from other hunters. Dean sipped his beer as Sam hung up the third call of the night.

“Man, I can’t remember the last wendigo we had to take out. I wonder if Bobby felt like this all the time,” Sam snorted. He downed his bottle.

“Huh. We took up his job, didn’t we?” Dean asked.

“Yup. It’s not that bad either, since we have all these books for whatever we don’t know about.”

“True.”

Sam stared at the wall. “Dean…”

“If the next thing out of your mouth isn’t “I got the pie this time”, I don’t want to hear it.”

“We need to talk about what happened with Cain. Cas said-”

“I’m supposed to kill him next, and then you. What else is there to talk about?”

“You’re not supposed to kill anyone. Crowley was an accident.”

“I liked it. I like that I killed him, okay?”

“That doesn’t mean you’re going to like killing us! Jesus, Dean. Do you hear yourself? You act like you already gave up and gutted us. There’s still time. We’re not giving up on you just because some asshole with fabulous hair said you’re a monster.”

“Did you just say Cain had fabulous hair?” Dean snorted. Sam rolled his eyes.

“Fuck you, dude. This is serious. We’ve been to hell and back. We stopped the apocalypse. You’ve been to Purgatory. It’s just another thing we need to handle.”

“Compartmentalize, you mean? Cram that sucker in the ‘just another Winchester problem’ box?”

“Basically. Who knows? Maybe you can do what Cain can’t. Maybe you can fight it.”

Dean called Cas that night, pleading with him to end it. The angel had promised to if it got too bad, and it was beyond that. He still dreamed of leaving the house and slicing open demons and innocent people. He couldn’t tell what was a dream and what was real anymore. Dean screamed til he was blue in the face. Cas didn’t show.

Sam brought him on another case. Two kids stabbed each other literally in the back. Their parents were on the scene, crying and making a fit about the other parent’s kid like neither of them had committed a crime. Not that they could help it, though. Traces of sulfur decorated their palms.

It looked like demons were involved this time, so when one cornered them on the scene, neither of them were surprised.

“I can’t wait till you come back on our side,” it spat from under Dean’s boot. He pushed the fucker further into the ground, pouring holy water over its face. It screamed. “Hell needs a new leader.”

Dean paled, remembering his dream, and stepped off, staggering toward Sam. The demon fled.

Four more kids turned up with their spines severed.

Sam called Cas in - "He’s sleeping in your bed, Dean!” - when the fifth body turned up.

“There has to be more than just one demon here,” Sam insisted.

“It seems that way. There are probably two of them stabbing each other and fleeing the bodies,” Cas agreed. Dean didn’t have anything to say, so he tugged at the stray string on his sleeve. His wrist burned.

“Why don’t we just summon them here and gank ‘em when they show up?” he mumbled to himself mostly. Cas’s head snapped in his direction.

“Do you believe that’s a wise choice?” Cas asked.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Could you handle yourself around them?” Sam piped in.

“Of course I can! Call them up right now, Cas,” Dean gripped. “Come on, angelboy. Try me.”

When two in the morning rolled by and the motel room was properly covered in blood and devil’s traps, Cas kept a hand on Dean’s shoulder while Sam read the spell off.

“The King wants an audience,” the shorter of the two demons said. The second laughed.

“If you wanted us, you could’ve just waited. We were coming anyway.” And, for some reason, Dean’s blood boiled pleasantly at the thought. He dropped a hand to Cas’ lower stomach.

“Fuck you,” Dean hissed just as Cas wondered, “king?”

The redhead’s eyes followed Dean’s hand. “So you found it, huh?” she said with a smile. Cas flinched and clapped his hands over himself.

Dean’s fingers dug into the fabric of Cas’ shirt.

“Spill.”

“I swallowed it.”

“You swallowed the First Blade?” Sam asked, incredulous. “Well, we really wouldn’t have checked in you. Good plan.”

“Right,” The short demon rolled its eyes. “Do you want us to take it out for you?”

“Is that why you called?” the redhead supplied.

“Or are you going to do it?”

“Can we wat-?” The question was cut short by Dean’s knife digging into her throat. His head shifted uncomfortably. The world tilted and blood splashed over the blues and greens. Warm, wet joy filled him. He slashed again and again, the colors before him fading from black to a dull white. The blue disappeared with a flicker of eyelids.

Everything shifted again.

Sam was on his back across the room. Red and Shorty’s bodies, if they could even be called that, painted the walls and desecrated the floor. It _stank_. Bad. Dean could smell rotting already from their stenchy corpses. He stumbled at the sight. Something uniquely cool and soft rested in the space between his hands. Dean slowly looked down.

Cas’ pale blue, shining features filled his vision. His face was beautiful. Fuck, Dean missed it. He cradled the angel’s cheeks, looking right into his eyes. Tears fell down his face, but he ignored the burning of his irises.

“Cas,” Dean said in a crackling whisper. He could see a gaping hole the shape of a jaw on his stomach. The angel smiled faintly, blood defining the creases on his face. They were on the brink of that something again, the thing they never talked about even though it practically dominated their friendship. Cas swallowed. He looked pissed, hopeless, and exhausted all in one.

“I love you,” Cas coughed. He friggin’ said it. He said the fucking L-word right in Dean’s face with his blood all over Dean’s fucking hands and a fucking gaping hole from Dean’s blade. Fuck, he said it with a _don’t you dare defy me_ expression.

Dean laughed. He cackled. Of course, he did. Of course, he loved him. God thought _hey, Dean doesn’t feel guilty enough, why don’t we have him kill the guy that’s in fucking love with him?_ Dean just lost it. And now, Cas looked afraid. Not because he was dying, no. That’d be too reasonable. He was afraid _for Dean_. Dean’s stomach flipped.

“I know, Cas,” he mumbled. He compressed the wound on Cas’ chest. A trickle of blood fell from the angel’s lips. Fresh sweat condensed on Dean’s forehead. “Stop talking.”

They sat quietly for a few moments, just holding each other and waiting for Sammy to wake up. Dean counted Cas’ breaths, and he shifted one of his hands to wrap around Cas’ neck. If he asked, it was to take his pulse. He didn’t. Eyes closed, breathing shallow, Dean almost thought Cas’ died. For a second, bile filled his mouth. Then, Cas grabbed his hand, the one on his chest, and squinted. He clenched Dean’s hand like a lifeline.

“Dean,” Cas said urgently. Damn, he was gonna fall apart before Sam got there. Dean rubbed slow circles over Cas’ carotid artery with his thumb, willing his heart to keep pumping. “ _Dean_.”

“You always reminded me of the eldest Halliwell witch,” Cas sighed with that stupid fucking smile like he was looking at the sun or some shit.

“What the hell?” Dean’s hands froze, to Cas’ displeasure. The angel’s face fell a fraction. “I remind you of a friggin’ witch?”

“She never said it either,” he tried to explain, coughing a tiny bit of blood up at the end.

 Dean paled. Goddamn it, god-fucking-damn it.  “I don’t get that reference, Cas.”

“Ah, our roles have switched,” he said. He dropped his head back to the ground and sucked in a long, tired breath. “Now I know the pop culture allusion, and you’re confused.”

“Oh, shut up,” Dean said. He shoved the angel’s shoulder.

“Your face is dark,” Cas whispered suddenly.

Sam shifted in the corner of the room.

“Don’t worry, Dean. I’ll…” his expression grew far away, as if he thought of something else. His fingers wrapped around Dean’s again, and his other hand fell down to his stomach. A wet _plop_ like a suction cup told Dean he did something, something significant, before Cas held the First Blade to his own neck. He guided Dean’s fingers to the handle.

“Do it,” Cas whispered. Dean flinched, his hand trembling. More blood dripped from his neck.

“Cas, no.”

“Dean.” Cas pulled Dean’s hand a little. “Please.”

“I love you too,” Dean whispered as he closed his eyes and nodded, whipping the blade across as fast as he could. The body in his arms slumped to the floor.

A small, blue light fell into his hand.


End file.
